by Sondra Grey
CHAPTER SEVEN
I t was hours later that Isla sat back, temple pounding slightly from the concentration. Someone had come in to light the candles and the room was awash with a dim, golden light.
“I think I’ve had enough,” she said. That she was frustrated was an understatement. She’d been at it for hours and the concept of strategy eluded her. The Laird had been the epitome of patient – which had surprise her, for he seemed so impatient with everything else.
“Don’t get discouraged,” he told her, kindly. “I imagine that sacrificing anything, let alone chess pieces, is quite against a healer’s morals. You’d save all the pieces if you could.” When she looked up at him he winked and then hissed, as the gesture pulled at the sutures on his temple.
Isla was up in an instant, batting his hand away to check and see if anything had torn. It hadn’t, but the bruise still looked terrible. “I’d like to put more arnica on it,” she said, frowning down at the contusion.
“Do you know…” Strong fingers came up and grabbed her chin lightly, tilting it down so that Isla was immediately caught in the warm depths of an intent, brown gaze. “That you are as lovely when you frown as when you smile? I can’t think of any other lass for whom that’s true.” A grin spread slowly across his lips, and up to his eyes.
His fingers left her chin, tracing the line of her cheek towards her neck before twirling in the black hair that had come loose from her plait. “Did your betrothed kiss you, lass? When he found you frowning? Were they chaste kisses, here?” The pads of his fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. “Or were they bolder?”
Isla barely breathed as his fingers travelled downward, running across the line of her lower, pressing slightly until her mouth opened. Her breath left her in a soft whoosh. Fire flared up from the very core of her, licking in insistent tongues of flames up her spine. Her breasts felt heavy, nipples budding against the wool of her gown. She cast a frantic eye to the door.
“Shhhh,” he said, gripping her chin again, directing her gaze back to him. “It’s open a crack, but they can’t see us.”
“My laird, this is wrong,” she whispered. But it didn’t feel wrong. She wanted him to kiss her, knew instinctively that his kisses were nothing like Gavin’s. And she wanted them, desperately.
“Ah, I can’t argue with you,” he said, lips quirking in a half smile, eyes losing none of their intent. “But I can’t care either. I’ve wanted you since I had you in my arms on the road through the hills. I’ve wanted to sink myself into your warmth, feel your lips wrap around…” His other hand gripped her wrist suddenly, pulling her off her feet so that she landed half atop him. She gasped.
“Shhh,” he said again, bringing a finger to his lips, eye flicking to the door, then back to her. With light fingers beneath her chin, he guided her forward until their lips were almost touching. Isla’s brain had run off, leaving her empty in a body full of need.
“Let me kiss you,” he said, his breath warm against her lips, eyes blazing into hers. “Let me kiss you. I’d give my life right now to kiss you.”
Isla closed her eyes, lost to sensation, and the laird must have taken that for a yes, for his lips were on hers. Soft at first, light as butterfly wings until she opened her mouth to breath, then he pulled her close, tugging at her until she was pressed against his chest, half on and half off the bed, held close by the strength of his arms.
His lips firmed, and the kiss deepened, searing her head to toe with a sensation beyond anything she’d ever felt before. His mouth kindled her desire from a camp fire into a full, forest blaze, and suddenly she was insatiable. She kissed him back, feverishly, fervently. Her hands twisted in the fabric of his shirt.
Calum growled and crushed her to him, and the kiss became something violent, teeth and tongue. Isla whimpered against him, writhing with the intensity of her feelings. One of his arms tightened, holding her in place, while the other moved, hand hot as it cupped her breast, fingers reaching to pinch lightly at her taught nipple. Isla cried out into his mouth and he swallowed her cries, drank them in. The kiss went on and on.
Isla gasped when he broke the kiss, when fastened his mouth so the soft, sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Thomasina,” he whispered there, voice raw and hungry as she was. “Thomasina, lass, I’m desperate to touch you…”
Perhaps it was because the name was not her own, or because he was already touching her and where else could he possibly touch? But Isla came to her senses so quickly it was almost painful. She pushed away from him. Steel! She had to be steel. She pushed harder and he let her go. She all but fell to the floor and got up, backing away, knowing that she looked wild, flushed.
Calum’s lips were wet, his teeth worrying at the corner of his bottom lip and he growled shaking his head. “Lass,” he said to her. “When I’ve the balance to get out of this bed…”
“You’ll leave me be,” she said, her breath catching.
“Oh Angel, I think it’s too late for both of us.” His eyes were all heat and promise. Isla’s skin felt tight, as if she might burst from it. She wanted to go to him, wanted him to build that fire again, make it rage…
“Good night,” she said, her voice coming out just a bit shaky.
“Oh no, lass, but one of these nights, it will be.”
Isla lay awake for most of the evening trying to get her body to calm down. Her lips felt bruised and swollen, her body achy and unsatisfied. If she hadn’t known better, she’d suspect she was coming down with a fever. But she wasn’t ignorant of the ways between a man and a woman. Thomasina had told her plenty in the months after she’d first married.
You feel all hot and cold, and tight. And when he touches you, you start to burn.
She could see her friend, eyes wide with the telling of her tale, arms crossed around her stomach as if she were holding herself together.
And when he does touch you, you want him to never stop. He’ll touch you everywhere, because you’re his. You’re his wife, you belong to him.
As a healer, Deirdre hadn’t been a prude and hadn’t sheltered her daughter from certain facts of life. She knew how love-making worked. But to hear Thomasina tell of it – it sounded terrible and fascinating.
Isla had wondered over her friend’s words for days. And when Gavin had come courting her, she’d pressed in for a kiss. He’d kissed her back, enthusiastically, but his hands had been tame. He hadn’t touched her as Thomasina described.
Isla shuddered in her bed. Calum had touched her, had held her chin, had run his hands across her breasts. And she’d burned. She’d never felt anything like that before, and she wanted to feel it again.
What was it he said to her? “I’d give my life to kiss you.” Her heart beat hard for him. Would he? Would he give his life for her? Would he marry her?
The thought stopped her in her tracks. He didn’t even know her real name. He didn’t know who she was. Could she tell him now? Had the lie gone too far?
The next few days went by in a blur. Undecided over whether to tell Calum her true name, Isla avoided him, sending Geordie in to check on him when checking in was necessary. The Laird was only in bed for another day. Despite her insistence he rest, he was up and about.
Isla had no time to remonstrate with him. She was busy working with Hugh, who was getting better by the day. She marveled at the boy’s swift healing – a man twice his age would have taken twice as long. But she was saddened a bit by it to. In a few days’ time, when she was sure he was healed and walking, she would leave.
It was three days after Isla had kissed Calum in his bedchamber that Mrs. Allan came knocking on Hugh’s door, grabbing Isla from her patient. “We need all hands, lass,” she said.
“What is it?” Isla asked. The castle and its occupants were in a dither. The rugs and tapestries had been taken down and hung outside to be beaten. The servants were washing floors, dusting all the surfaces, polishing silver, and the kitchens were in an uproar.
“What is it?” Isla re
peated when Mrs. Allan put her to chopping vegetables.
“The MacLeod’s are coming a day early,” she said, looking harried. “And poor Cook is going mad with the rush of it.” They had passed the house keeper on their way down the stairs. She’d been running around the great hall with her hands waving like two starlings in a storm.
“The Macleod?” asked Isla, surprised. She’d heard them mentioned a few times but was uncertain why the Clan Chief of the MacLeod’s might be visiting Dundur?
“His son,” said Mrs. Allan, “on the laird’s invitation, and on his father’s behalf.”
“What on earth for?”
Mrs. Allan looked fretful. “Fanciful notion of the Laird’s. He wants peace in the highlands. He wants to stop the warring of the clans; the loss of life has been devastating recently. The Laird convinced the Red Bard to push for peace, and The Grant has asked Calum to set the pieces in motion.”
Mrs. Allan shook her head. “Better luck trying to get mountains to move. It’s a foolish undertaking. There’s too much bad blood. Between the Grants and the Comyns, between the Campbells and the Camerons, between the Camerons and the McPhersons…” She made a sound in the back of her throat.
Isla had paused in her dish washing. “But why push for peace? He’s such a fierce warrior is he not? They sang a song in…” She almost gave herself away and amended her sentence. “There was a bard came to the village and sang a beautiful song about the battle at Struy. It mentioned the Wolf of Dundur.”
“Oh, the Laird is a braw warrior, and I dare-say he could outmatch many a man on the battlefield. But he’s been pushing The Grant to open up peace talks for over four years now. It’s only because the Red Bard is growing older that he’s considering it.”
Isla was fascinated by this and, as she stacked dishes, thought about all she’d been told. The men she’d known, the Stewart men, lived for the skirmishes. They went on raiding parties and rode the borders. They practiced sword fighting, axe throwing…
Isla had never considered clan warfare to be foolish. That her father was lost to a clan skirmish had seemed terribly sad and yet natural. But what if there were peace in the highlands? What if the clans could unit against the British, the way Joss Stewart was always suggesting. The feet seemed like a grand one and she was impressed by the laird who meant to attempt it.
By the end of the day she was too exhausted to be impressed. But the castle was spotless, the guest rooms ready for guests (Lady Campbell had made a scene when she’d rode out), and the kitchens ready to serve a feast.
Isla was with Hugh when the Macleods rode in and heard them rather than saw them enter the keep.
“Have you ever met them?” she asked Hugh. The boy was sitting up in bed, staring out the window with more impatience than she’d yet seen from him. Scowling, he looked almost like his uncle and she teased him for it.
He shook his head, ignoring her teasing. “No. They’ve never visited. Not in the two years I’ve been here. But I think Uncle Calum knows Leith Macleod from elsewhere. Perhaps Leith fostered at Freuchie with Uncle Calum and the Grants? I’ve never asked him.”
Mrs. Allan came at the usual hour to escort Isla to dinner.
The woman was dressed in her finest gown, a deep green that went well with the iron shade of her hair. Isla hadn’t had cause for vanity yet, but she envied Mrs. Allan for her nice gown and silver jewelry. All Isla possessed was the woman’s daughter’s cast offs: plain wool in grey and dark blue.
Knowing this was to be a feast of sorts, she did her best to look presentable. She chose the dress with the lowest neckline. She let her hair down and braided the front pieces back from her face. She pinched her cheeks, tied a blue ribbon about her neck, and hoped she looked gay enough for a celebration.
“The MacLeod’s brought their court bard with them,” said Mrs. Allan, who sounded almost girlish at the prospect of music. “He’ll sing for us tonight!”
Isla couldn’t help but feel a bit excited herself.
As they entered the great hall it seemed that everyone was in a festive mood. The MacLeod’s were very welcome in the Grant hall, and were mingling with Grant clansmen and women.
Isla couldn’t help the urge to seek out Calum, and she spied him seated on the dais with a select group of cousins and MacLeod’s. Isla’s gaze lit on the man sitting beside Calum. So that is Leith Macleod. He looked a year or two younger than Calum, probably closer to Isla’s own age, but perhaps that was because he was he was less stern. He was grinning ear to ear at something one of the Grant’s said, and he was terribly handsome. He was prettier than Calum, with finer, less rugged features, and long, mobile lips.
“Lord what trouble there will be tonight,” said Mrs. Allan, watching as one of the serving girls nearly spilled ale on the table in an attempt to brush against Leith’s arm while filling his cup.
Isla couldn’t blame the girl. While she personally found the Laird of Dundur to be the more appealing, there was something about the young Macleod that captured her attention. Even from this distance she could see his eyes were a brilliant green, his hair short shorn and black as Isla’s own tresses.
He must have felt her stare for the young Macleod looked up suddenly and caught her watching. Isla quickly averted her gaze, turning it towards the floor of the great hall, where clansmen mingled and chatted with some of the Macleod men.
“Lord have mercy,” murmured Mrs. Allan, looking exasperated. Isla looked to where the older woman was gazing and saw that Leith Macleod had leaned in to say something to Calum Grant, and that both men glanced her way.
Isla pretended she hadn’t noticed the glance, but her heart was hammering again.
Rather quickly, the social gathering turned festive. The Macleod’s had brought a harpist and the folks of Clan Grant had produced a fiddle player and a piper.
The music was background noise for a while, especially when dinner was served and people fell to chatting. Isla listened to an older Macleod clansmen tell a lively story about the Macleod healer, who bled people for bad humors. Deirdre had always scoffed at the healer at Castle Stalker, who did the same thing. “If god meant for blood to be let out of the body,” she said, “then young men wouldn’t die of battle wounds.”
The logic had seemed sound to her and so she repeated it, and then got into a debate about humors and fevers and their causes.
Dinner passed this way and when the dancing started up; Isla was pleased when the Macleod she’d been speaking with asked her to dance with him.
It wasn’t until she was spinning the willow that Isla realized she was just a bit drunk. Her laughter came easily and her feet seemed light and quick. Geordie came and asked her for a dance and she delighted in his awkward steps. When a jig came on it was none other than Leith Macleod who asked Isla to dance.
Isla accepted without thinking twice, noticing with pleasure that his hands were callused and warm. He was a swift and happy dancer, and when they circled round each other his hand lingered on her back.
The pace soon grew, frantic and Isla retired to have another drink.
“You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself.”
She nearly shrieked when Calum came up behind her, hand hot and possessive on her low back.
“What’s not to enjoy?” Isla asked breathlessly.
“Wanton,” he chided, bending down so that his breath was warm on her ear. They were in public and Isla resisted the urge to press back into him. More than anything she wanted his arms around her. “One minute you’re across my bed, in my arms, the next you’re dancing in the arms of other men.”
“Might you be jealous?” she asked, risking a glance over her shoulder at him. He hadn’t been dancing. The cut on his face was still angry, the bump had gone down but the bruise was still black at his hairline. His eyes had the slightly hazy look of drink, but they sharpened as they took her in.
“Am I jealous of Geordie MacNair or Leith Macleod?” He closed his eyes as if thinking about it, and when he opened th
em he looked incredibly serious. His dark gaze fastened on hers and he said, softly, “Should I be?”
Isla found her mouth dry suddenly. She licked her lips and swallowed. The laird’s eyes darted to where her tongue had been, and he inhaled slowly.
“No,” she said, finally, as if coming to some conclusion herself. Her voice was soft, but firm. He closed his eyes, as if savoring the word and when he opened them, the blaze was back, fierce and hot.
“You’re looking flushed, lass. I think you may need some air.” His eyes held a world of meaning and Isla nodded, her heart beating hard in her chest, the ale singing its heavy, insistent song in her veins.
She turned and went to find Mrs. Allan so the old woman wouldn’t come looking for her. Mrs. Allan was speaking with Mrs. Ives, one of the cousin’s wives, and Isla touched her shoulder lightly. “I’ve had enough to drink. I’m going to bed,” she said. She knew she was smiling a bit too wide, but Mrs. Allan must have been a bit drunk too for she grinned back and patted Isla’s arm. “That’s it, child, off to bed with you then!”
Isla sailed from the hall, singing a small song beneath her breath. When she hit the cool air of the courtyard, she nearly raced into a run, but contained herself. There were a few people milling about, and a couple entwined over near the rain barrels. Isla kept to the shadows, walking as if she’d no purpose at all.
She’d passed the archways leading towards the bailey when a hand came out to grasp her. Before she knew it, she was pressed against the stone of the entry way, her cries smothered by hard lips. She knew a moment of panic before she smelled him (wool and leather), recognized the passion in the kiss. Isla gave herself over to it; she threw her arms around his neck and pressed into him. The Laird growled low in his throat and deepened the kiss. Their teeth clashed, Isla breathed through him, the kiss unending and so, so intense.
